


Give Me Love

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ed Sheeran - Freeform, F/F, F/M, M/M, Songfic, and stuff, angel - Freeform, give me love, major character death but only sort of, post-Afghanistan, what if john died when he was shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't make it in one piece back to London after he gets shot in Afghanistan. Based on Ed Sheeran's Give Me Love music video.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> This really is just a retelling of Ed Sheeran's music video for Give Me Love, only with John as the blonde and Sherlock as, well, Sherlock. This is just the first part, so enjoy. This is my first fanfic I've ever written for BBC Sherlock, so please take this with a grain of salt. Thanks. 
> 
> EDIT: Sooooo. Beware of shittiness. This is my first Sherlock fic and it really sucks. Like, a lot. So. Uh. Enjoy?

He felt as if he were submerged underwater. There was no light, there was no sound, and he just felt heavy. His thoughts were sluggish and his mouth tasted foul. He tried to pry his eyelids open, but it felt as if they were weighed down with bricks. Faintly, he could hear beeping in the distance, a rustle of clothes, soft voices. Silence took over again and he was submerged in unconsciousness once more.

 

-

 

“John.” He blinked slowly, surprised when his eyes didn’t need to adjust to the bright light. He was in a white room that looked like the waiting room of a hospital, only more stylish. Glancing around, he saw a tall man sitting across from him, dressed in a crisp, white suit. His hair was cropped carefully and combed away from his face. Pale, patient eyes were focused on him and a kind smile tugged at the man’s lips.

“Hello,” John replied politely, noticing his lack of clothing. He sat in a clear, plastic chair wearing nothing but a hospital gown and soft slippers. “How do you feel?” the man asked gently. John took a moment to check himself out.

“Fine,” he said with a confused shrug.

“Would you like to know what is going on?” the strange man asked.

John didn’t really care. He felt weightless—like nothing could ever harm him. It was a nice change from the darkness that he had been submerged in for—how long had it been? Weeks? Months? Years?

“Two months,” the man said, smiling grimly.

John blinked at him, confused.

“There are no secrets here. It’s not quite a judgment, but its close enough,” the man smiled slightly, a twinkle in his pale eyes.

“Where am I?” John finally asked, noticing the lack of people.

“You’re in the in between place,” the man replied.

“You mean purgatory?” John blanched.

“Not exactly. Think of it as the waiting room before you get to see Peter,” the man said, shifting slightly in his seat.

“I’m dead?” John asked. He kind of figured that might be it. His shoulder was shot clean through in the middle of the Afghani desert, miles from any hospital.

“Not exactly,” the man smiled. John’s brow creased in confusion. The man’s smile broadened. “I have a proposition for you,” he grinned.

“A proposition?” John asked. The man nodded. “What if I don’t accept it?” John asked.

“I’m afraid you really have no choice,” the man sighed. He bent over as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. John sank back into his chair.

“Well, what is it?” John asked curiously. The man looked up at him and gave a soft smile.

“You’re a very special man, John—more special than you could have ever imagined. You have to fulfill your duty before you get to come back. You’ve been dancing around it your entire life, and there’s no time to wait until the next,” the man sighed.

“What duty? And I haven’t been dancing around anything,” John said defensively.

“Oh, but you wouldn’t know. Some things are set in stone, but not even the greatest of mountains can withstand erosion of the elements,” the man said, a heavy sorrow filling his eyes.

“What do you mean?” John asked, getting frustrated. “I don’t want vague half-answers—just tell me what I need to know,” he went on, rubbing the lines on his forehead.

“You’re to give love to those in need,” the man said simply.

John just looked at him blankly. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?” John asked.

“Well, you are John ‘Three Continents’ Watson, aren’t you?” the man asked him with a large grin on his face. John’s face flushed and he adjusted in his seat. “Not to worry—you will have the necessary skillset available to you once you return as well as the one you were born with,” the man replied.

“What skillset?” John demanded, confused.

“You’ll know when you get there,” the man smiled before standing. He gave a brief nod to John and disappeared behind the only door in the entire room.

 

-

 

Suddenly, John was lying on a dirty cot in the middle of an abandoned flat, wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He took in his surroundings—one large room that was split into a living area and a kitchen with two doors off to the side that were wide open. Beyond the doorways he saw a dingy bathroom and small bedroom. To his right was a heavy front door which he assumed lead outside since he could feel a cold draft emitting from it.

With a sigh, he shifted to into a sitting position and clutched his head. There was an annoying itch in his back and the longer he ignored it, the worse it got.

Finally, he ripped his shirt off with a growl and began attacking his skin with his short nails. He stopped suddenly when he felt warm, sticky liquid ooze from his broken skin. Carefully, he stood and walked into the dingy bathroom. He turned his back to the mirror and glanced back to see blood dripping down his back from long scratches.

Cautiously, he took a towel and dabbed at the broken skin and jumped. There were things sticking out of his back. With a horrified expression, he reached back and tugged at the stick-like protrusion and winced as he felt something rip from his pore—much like pulling out a handful of hair from a sensitive scalp. He held the long, spindly, blood-soaked thing in his hand and ran his fingers over it in disbelief. In his hand was a long, white feather.

Feeling sick, his knees buckled and he fell to the floor, barely catching himself on the porcelain basin. Suddenly, the itching became too much and he gave in, digging and scratching—ripping his skin to shreds as the feathers, his wings, sprung from his shoulder blades in an agonizing, macabre display. He sat on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own blood and skin, and he cried.


	2. We Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes back full-circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I cut out a few scenes and added a few. GodIPitytheViolins inspired me to write a couple of the extra bits in here, and she definitely inspired me to tweak the ending a bit to get the full-circle thing going on. I know it's kind of shitty, and I don't do neither John nor Sherlock any justice at all, but yeah. Enjoy. xx

He was standing on the edge of a writhing mass of bodies—men and women grinding against one another, some in drug-addled hazes, others drunk on music and sweat, most swimming in alcoholic dazes.

He saw a short, blonde woman grinding her hips against the crotch of a tall, red-headed man with a lewd smile on his face. The woman couldn’t be more than twenty, and she was staring longingly over her shoulder at a brunette sitting by herself, staring down into her drink solemnly.

John sighed and checked his watch. He’d been waiting all night, and he was tired with his patience wearing thin. Finally, the blonde said something to the man and slunk off towards the brunette, dark blue eyes dancing with nerves. Carefully, she sat down next to the woman and placed her hand on the brunette’s arm. Quickly, John aimed his arrow and let go when the two women made eye contact for the first time.

With a self-satisfied hum, John slung his bow on his back and made his way out of the club.

 

-

 

John had been at it for six months, had given two hundred people love, before he got The Case. He had just gotten back from a nursing home when he saw the ominous, black file folder lying on his dingy mattress. With a sigh, he flopped down next to it and took a look inside. The first thing he saw was a photo of the strangest, most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

He was tall and willowy with skin as white as snow and a shock of messy, black curls. His eyes were a strange mixture of blue, green, and grey, and it seemed as if he only wore expensive, designer suits, always foregoing the tie.

John quickly flipped through the man’s file, absorbing everything about the man at the speed of sound. John memorized his childhood, his battle with addiction, his brilliant mind, his issues with his brother, his university days, all of his own cases, and finally, his name. Sherlock Holmes.

 

-

 

John watched as Sherlock bounded out of the door of a small flat, his belongings being thrown out behind him.

“Don’t come back, Freak!” a tall man shouted from inside the flat, angry. Sherlock just picked up his belongings and hailed a cab. John sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to relieve the tension. This was the third flatmate Sherlock had gone through in a month.

John checked his watch and started walking towards St. Bart’s.

 

-

 

Sherlock sat at a long lab table, looking into a microscope, periodically jotting notes into a black, leather-bound notebook. He was dressed in his favorite purple shirt and black trousers. John leaned against the table next to him, taking in everything about the man.

He was tall and lanky with lightly defined, sinewy musculature and cheekbones high enough to cut someone. He barely spoke, but when he did, it was quick and sure and always accurate. He reeked of money and when it came to social customs, he left a lot to be desired.

John had been trailing him and observing him for nearly two months and had yet to find anyone interested in the man. He could definitely see why that was, but at the same time he couldn’t help but to be a bit baffled. Sherlock wasn’t well-versed in social customs, but he was strangely beautiful and had a brilliant mind and a quick wit. His deductions were nearly always accurate and he smelled divine.

John shook his head and sighed before taking a seat on the only clear surface of the lab table to observe Sherlock some more. Every once in a while, Sherlock would look up and glance around the room. On a few occasions, John could swear the man could see him, but those moments were fleeting, so he shrugged it off as paranoia.

There was the opening of a door and John glanced over to see Molly, the forensic pathologist who worked in the morgue at St. Bart’s. She was obviously obsessed with Sherlock, but John knew from experience that obsession didn’t make for a lasting love. Unfortunately for the case, Molly wasn’t a good source of love for anyone at the moment.

John watched as she tried to flirt with him to no avail, as per usual. Molly rushed out of the room, red-faced when Sherlock told her that her new haircut was too harsh for her face shape.

With a sigh, John stood and stretched before making his way back to his flat.

 

-

 

Sherlock was flirting with a middle-aged woman for a case. Her hand has on his thigh, a predatory grin on her face. He was leaning in towards her ear, whispering dirty things and she shivered as his breath tickled her flesh.

John felt his gut clench and walked out of the pub, red-faced and angry.

 

-

 

He should have known something like this would happen. John was never one for the ordinary when it came to his partners. His first girlfriend was a radical feminist who grew her hair long and wore glitter eyeshadow to her morning classes. His longest relationship was with an aspiring lawyer with a sex drive larger than any man he’d ever known and a penchant for bondage and severe haircuts.

John found himself spending every waking moment following Sherlock around London, and sometimes even following him to his flat to watch him think and, less often than not, sleep.

He watched as Sherlock experimented on various body parts and substances, he watched as Sherlock made rapid-fire deductions about everyone around him, driving anyone who dares to get close far away. John was beginning to think he’d never find love for Sherlock, and as time passed, he found that he didn’t _want_ to find love for Sherlock.

 

-

 

Sherlock was at a gay bar wearing ridiculously tight trousers and a half-open shirt. There were three men surrounding him, giggling like schoolgirls. One of them was his prime suspect for a double murder.

John sat at the bar drinking a beer that wouldn’t take the edge off, no matter how many he threw back.

The longer he sat there, the more people gravitated toward the tall, curly-haired detective.

Sherlock leaned in and whispered something to the suspect and the shorter man’s face turned red and a lecherous grin swiftly overtook his attractive face. Glancing around, the man grabbed hold of Sherlock’s wrist and pulled him into one of the back rooms reserved for private encounters.

John felt his stomach drop and rushed out of the club and into the dark, cold street amongst warm, scantily clad bodies.

He broke into a run, shoving past people who couldn’t see him. His heart ached and his head was filled with a dull thudding noise. He started shooting arrows every which way, tears rolling down his cheeks. He allowed himself to feel everything he’d been repressing since he got The Case.

Women were pressed against each other, tasting one another’s lipstick while men were fighting over other men, throwing punches and stealing kisses. John ran down to his last arrow and made a run for it, pushing his short legs as fast as they would go.

When he got to his flat, he threw open the door and started throwing the minimal belongings he had across the small room. With a cry, he kicked the dingy mattress in the centre of the room and collapsed down on it, holding his chest.

“Give me love, give me love, give me love, please, God, please, give me love,” he chanted, balling up into the fetal position. His wings flapped behind him uselessly, scattering his other case files across the concrete floor.

He clutched at the black file folder marked _Sherlock Holmes_ and stared down at the photo of the detective.

“Love me,” he whispered brokenly at the expressive eyes set in the stoic face. “Give me love,” he said a bit louder, letting sobs wrack his compact body. Through his tears, he grappled with his last arrow.

“Give me love,” he pleaded before sinking the arrow into his shoulder, wincing as is pierced the scarred flesh. He cried out in pain and succumbed to the bitter darkness for the first time since he was shot.

 

-

 

“Well if it isn’t the freak,” Sally Donovan sneered as Sherlock ducked under the caution tape. He gave her bored stare before walking into the small, rundown flat. DI Lestrade was leaning over a body, examining it.

“It couldn’t have been a suicide—a man of this size couldn’t have shoved a bloody arrow clean through his own shoulder,” Anderson scoffed, taking a photo of the short, blond man lying on the dingy mattress, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Sherlock glanced around the room. There was no furniture save the mattress; there were no personal belongings, no clothes, no books, nothing.

“I realize it’s quite the feat, but don’t be an idiot, Anderson,” Sherlock snapped, walking around to inspect the corpse. He carefully examined the man’s face—tanned, faint hints of age lines that would have been more prominent if he weren’t dead, soft blond lashes that brushed the tops of his cheeks. He was an attractive man, recently invalidated from the military judging by his tan, and obviously a sufferer of PTSD.

“The man killed himself,” Sherlock stated, brushing his fingers over the arrow. The man had bled out over the mattress over the course of a couple hours since the arrow acted as a sort of stopper in the wound.

“Must have been a miserable sod to have done that to himself,” Sally muttered under her breath as she looked at the man. “Did you get any ID?” she asked, taking in his appearance.

“None. He does have a tattoo of the RAMC logo on his left bicep, though, so he was a military man, and he has the Watson coat of arms on his other arm, so we can assume that’s his last name,” Anderson said, looking through his camera.

“Well, there’s nothing left to do, then. Let the paramedics take him away,” Lestrade said, standing up and walking out of the small flat towards the ambulance. Sally and Anderson followed him.

Sherlock stood over the body for a moment more, staring curiously at the dead man. He seemed familiar in a way. When the paramedics bustled in with a body bag, he stepped back and watched them take the man away to St. Bart’s morgue.

 

-

 

John Watson woke up in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in the middle of a rainy day in winter. He lay in a small rollaway bed with a curtain drawn around him, separating him from ten other patients in the same room. He sat up and winced as he used muscles that hadn’t been moved in nearly a year.

“Oh, Dr. Watson, you’re awake!” a nurse gasped, rushing over to throw the curtain around his bed completely open. “How are you feeling, dear?” she asked, checking him over.

“A bit stiff,” he said, glancing around. The last thing he remembered was a hazy memory of being flown in to a hospital camp from the front lines, pain, and strange dreams about a tall man in a purple shirt.

“You’ve been invalidated home from Afghanistan, and you just woke up from a coma,” the nurse said gently, gaging his reaction. John looked up at her warily.

“How long was I under?” he asked, looking around him.

“Nearly a year,” she said, patting his shoulder. He nodded slowly. “Shall I call your sister to check you out?” the nurse asked politely. John nodded slowly, adjusting in the uncomfortable bed. “Okay. You just sit tight and I’ll be right back, dear.”

Blinking slowly, John pulled his gown down a bit to inspect his shoulder. The scarred skin was puckered a bit where the bullet entered, and as he felt behind him, he could feel the scarred tissue where it exited as well.

With a sigh, he settled back down in his bed.

 

-

 

In the middle of a rainy day in winter, in the morgue of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, John Watson’s body disappeared from the drawer marked John Doe. The arrow in the evidence bag and any DNA collected at the crime scene also vanished.

 

-

 

John Watson hobbled with his cane behind Mike Stamford, into a lab in St. Bart’s morgue. “Bit different than my day,” John laughed, following Mike into the lab.

“You’ve no idea!” Mike replied with a chuckle.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” John looked up to see an attractive man in a purple shirt with a mess of black curls looking at Mike expectantly.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked defensively.

“I prefer to text,” the man replied.

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike said, averting his gaze.

“Here, use mine,” John piped up, handing his phone over to the strange man.

“Oh, thank you,” the man said. Their hands brushed and both the man and John felt an electric surge between them. John stared into the man's eyes--not quite blue, not quite green, and not quite grey. The man stared back, taking in the thin line of ocean blue around the dilated pupils.

“Sherlock Holmes,” John muttered under his breath, his face flushed. The strange, half-memory that was fighting to emerge from the depths of his brain fizzled out as soon as Sherlock retracted his hand. They stood there and stared at one another for a moment, bewildered.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike interrupted. Sherlock looked between them once more and gave a small smile.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”


End file.
